Madness
by BoldlyGoingNowhereFast
Summary: What if Gandalf had not made it to the gate in time? What if Thorin had been able to carry out his punishment for Bilbo's betrayal? The sickness of the line of Durin takes more from Thorin than he thought possible. Warnings: Major Character Death


Thorin fists clench around the soft blue fabric of the coat Bilbo is wearing and he uses this grip to shove the hobbit backwards, bending him over the stone of the ramparts. There is chaos around them; the sound of the Company shouting in alarm, trying to wrench his hands off of the burglar.

He had thought them loyal, but it seems even true loyalty could be lost when it came to a treasure beyond belief. Thorin ignores their shouts and pleas, snarling in the terrified face of the hobbit, whose hands have started scrabbling over Thorin's in a weak attempt to dislodge his grip. The whine from Bilbo's lips only incenses him further. How dare Bilbo betray him so? Thorin had given the small creature his heart, and he had only tricked and deceived and betrayed.

Thorin feels as though Bilbo has pulled a rug out from under his feet, sending him wheeling, all the while smirking in that infuriating way of his.

Thorin is a king and will not stand for those who work behind his back, who give the treasure of his heart to elves and men who would see him disgraced.

"Thorin, please," Bilbo whines, gaze terrified and lingering on Thorin's face. His nose is scrunched and his eyebrows are drawn together, and it would be enough to melt a weaker man's heart. Thorin's heart was forged from stone.

The cacophony around him fade and all he sees is the hobbit. "I do not deal with burglars and traitors," he snarls. "You should have thought of that before you stole from me." It is with unforgiving hands and a lip pulled back in a snarl that Thorin shoves at the small body under him.

He barely even hears the horrified shouts around him.

Thorin's thoughts are taken up entirely by the battle. All he can hear is his own breathing and the terrible roars of the orcs swinging their weapons at his head. All of his energy is spent trying to keep himself alive to kill as many of the awful creatures as he can. His kin have spilled enough of their own blood; now it is his turn to do his part.

The heat of blood on his hands and the burn of his muscles as he swings Orcrist are enough to make him feel alive, to feel lucid again after so long in the murky darkness of his mind. His sword plunges deep into the pale orc beneath him, and it is with a humorless grin on his face that he watches the evil light leave its eyes.

The eagles have arrived, and they methodically take out rank after rank of orc, clearing the filth from the earth below. Thorin watches from his spot on Ravenhill, wondering why their imminent victory doesn't clear the gnawing discomfort in his stomach.

He catches up with the rest of the Company where they have formed an exhausted group, weariness painted under their eyes and sorrow in their pinched expressions. Thorin does a headcount and finds that all the dwarves have survived. Seeing their expressions makes the gnawing stronger.

They turn to look at him, relief at his survival on their faces, but something else, something darker lurking there too.

Thorin frowns. "We have won, my friends. We have won back the mountain and will tonight dine where our forebears dined."

The speech dies on his tongue, and he feels a coldness leaking into his frame. "Where is Bilbo?" His eyes travel over each and every member of his Company, searching between them for the small hobbit. He expects to see him, dirtied from battle but smiling, ready to scold Thorin for being thoughtless and brash.

He doesn't expect to see horror written on the faces of his kin, staring at him as though he had started speaking in Sindarin. Something is dreadfully wrong, and it makes his throat threaten to close on him. It takes one more pass of his gaze over the Company, one glance at the tears that have started to gather in some of their eyes, for it to hit him.

Thorin's knees buckle and he lands hard on them, one hand taking the weight of his body tipping forward, the other clutching at the pain in his chest, a pain that feels like a sword through his heart. His breath is stuttering out of his throat in painful gasps as terrible images flash before his eyes.

The worst is the expression on Bilbo's face; the terrified pinch of his features accompanied by the high wine in his throat. Bilbo had been so brave to face him, to trust him not to turn so violently against him. The last thing Bilbo had expected was an attack.

Someone is sobbing, and it takes a few moments before he realizes that it's coming from his own mouth. The sobs wrack his body, and it is all he can do to keep from collapsing entirely. He has never felt such pain. It is then that he realizes why he feels as though something has torn inside of him.

Bilbo was the other half of his soul.

The thought nearly has him gagging onto the unforgiving earth.

When he finally lifts his head to the others, they are staring at him with a mixture of sorrow and pity, and none of them seem to know what to do. Their image is distorted through the tears in his eyes.

"Why did someone not stop me?" His voice is wrecked, shot through with the pain that is spiking through his heart. "You all knew I was out of my mind. Why…"

"We tried, Thorin, but…" Balin's voice is gentle and laced with age-old sorrow. "None of us reached you in time, and the wizard came even later."

Thorin closes his eyes tightly, trying to block out the horror of what he has done, but it is something he cannot escape. Behind his closed lids he sees Bilbo's face over and over again. It was not Bilbo who betrayed Thorin, but the other way around.

"Thorin, you were mad with sickness," Kíli says, and Thorin looks up at the face of his youngest nephew, streaked with tears. "Not all of the blame is yours."

A part of him that was still holding on snaps. "I killed him! His only motivation was to save us all, and I killed him." The other barely react to his outburst but to stare. Thorin gives a dry sob, any tears he had drying on his face. "He was my One, and I killed him."

That garners a reaction, a collection of gasps and sobs. The only one who doesn't look surprised is Balin, but the pinching of his features makes up for the lack of astonishment.

The death of a dwarf's One was one of the worst agonies imaginable. What Thorin had done was unthinkable.

He deserves the pain, but he does not deserve the look of pity the others are leveling at him. He would rather they shout, glare at him in disgust, lock him away in the dungeons to rot for what he has done. He cannot take this, but ending his own life would be an easy way out of this despair.

The dirt under his palms is rough, anchoring him to reality in a way the golden floor in the hall of his fathers hadn't.

"Leave me," he snarls. They all give him one last long look, but one-by-one they turn their backs on him. Even Dwalin eventually turns away, and Thorin can't help but think how telling that is.

Thorin wishes he could disappear into the ground, escape from this terrible reality in which he chose a rock above the brave, wonderful other half of his heart, but in this hell he stays. As the light fades from the sky and a light snow starts to fall, Thorin wishes he could disappear into the night.


End file.
